


On the road, so far

by Morrie_Wilde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Almost an epistolary story, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Depression, F/M, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Graphic Description, M/M, Not beta'd... we die like it's tuesday, Poet Castiel (Supernatural), Postcards, Professor Castiel (Supernatural), Rape/Non-con Elements, Rock and Roll, Runaway Dean Winchester, Violence, spotify playlist, tags will be updated as the story goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morrie_Wilde/pseuds/Morrie_Wilde
Summary: Ten years ago, Dean Winchester stole his old man's Chevy Impala. Ever since, he'd been driving all across America. When John Winchester passed away, Sam felt like selling the family home was the logical next step. Ten years. Dean was not coming back. Hell. No-one even knew if Dean was still alive.The new owner, Castiel Novak, a renowned English Literature professor moved in, hoping getting lost in the middle of nowhere, commonly known as Lawrence, Kansas, would help him figure things out. His depression turned him into a shadow of the man he once used to be. Reading..writing; books and poetry... It all meant nothing to him anymore.But one morning, a postcard comes through.
Relationships: Castiel & Bobby Singer, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 43





	1. Born to Run

**Author's Note:**

> All throughout the story, music will play a big part. So I made a Spotify playlist, which will be updated at each new posted chapter.
> 
> Whole lotta love y'all xX
> 
> [On the road](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4OPCkVGdMEfBtjq0ItWWdQ?si=YouN7iecSSOztpCVKeWUuQ&utm_source=copy-link)

_At night, we ride through mansions of glory_ _  
_ _In suicide machines_ _  
_ _Sprung from cages out on Highway 9_ _  
_ _Chrome wheeled, fuel injected and steppin' out over the line_ _  
_ _Oh, baby this town rips the bones from your back  
It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap_ _  
_ _We gotta get out while we're young  
`Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run_

_Born to run – Bruce Springsteen (1975)_

* * *

Sam took one last look at what used to be the family home, and closed the door. Steps heavy, he contemplated the house, but no tears were left to cry. The air was getting colder as the sun was setting down.

“I still think you’re making a mistake boy.” Bobby said, unable to take his eyes off of the closed blinds. The white house seemed unnatural like that, too quiet, haunted by ghosts from the past. The weeds had grown wild around it, and the lack of light inside almost made it look two dimensional, a weird cardboard cut out of a house. It wasn’t right.

“Dad is dead. And Dean... I know you don’t wanna hear it, but face it... so is Dean.” Sam said almost defensively, “He must be.” And with these words, he handed the keys over to Bobby. “Because if he is not... Then it simply means he wants nothing to do with us anymore right? And Dean would never...” The tall man replaced his hair behind his ear and dropped his arms in defeat.“The new owner is coming tomorrow, just give him the keys, and... that’s it Bobby. It’s done.” Sam got into his car, and without even looking back, drove away. It felt like he was running away. Escaping something as quick as he could, and never come back. Never again. Lawrence, Kansas, shall just be a random name on map from now on.

“Idjit.” Bobby pocketed the keys. From the back of his own truck, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and sat on the porch. He poured some on the grass before helping himself. “You don't even deserve it John.” It took him almost ten years, but he could not hold it in anymore, and there was not enough whiskey in the world to drown his sobs. God, he hated the man. He had drunk himself to death, a years long suicide, but Bobby could never forgive him. Not in life, and definitely not in death. Through gritted tears, he mumbled one last “You bastard!” before pushing himself back on his feet.

And just as planned, the next day Bobby was there. Sam had texted him the prior night, apologising for leaving like he did, and to let him know he was back safe and sound in Wichita. He was truly proud of Sam for becoming a lawyer, and apparently there was a new woman in his life, Eileen, and the kid seemed happy. Truly happy. So who could blame him for wanting to leave the past behind? And Sam had the chance to not know. And sometimes, some truths were better buried with a dead body. He just wished he could let go of the past as well. Instead, he just wished this key exchanged would be over so he could hit the counter before heading back to work at his garage. It took him years, but he had found the car he had been looking for, and he was restoring it at his own pace, not able to work on cars full time now that his back was killing him after a few minutes of being head deep in the bonnet. The 1968 Ford Mustang was one hell of a car, and he believed than within the next year, he would be able to drive it around. He had nothing left to do anyway... Karen had passed away eight years ago, now John was dead, Sam was all grown up making a life for himself in the big city and Dean... Dean.

Right at eleven on the dot, a car pulled by the house. Bobby rose an eyebrow at the sight of the Continental. Not a bad car. Just lacking finesse...And in desperate need for some maintenance as the car was almost wheezing in pain. A man got out. He looked overdressed for Lawrence, Kansas, and Bobby tried his best to hide a frown. Balancing a trench coat on his right arm, the man walked up to him. Bobby would have had imagined a new home owner would look more...enthusiastic but this guy looked plain miserable. Hair uncombed, three day stubble and than most empty blue eyes he had ever seen.

“Mr. Singer?” The man offered him his hand.

“Indeed.” Bobby stated blankly, leaving the man hanging there. “Well, I believe these are yours.” He gave him the keys, ready to jump back into his truck, when the man stopped him at the last minute.

“Thank you.”

Bobby shrugged and grumbled at the same time. “Just... take good care of...” He hid his emotions behind a fake cough, gesturing towards the house. The man tilted his head, and nodded compassionately. Bobby left, the air between them strangely heavy.

Castiel Novak, renowned English Literature professor, was now the proud owner of a shit hole, in Lawrence, Kansas.

He exhaled loudly and pushed the door open. In all fairness, it could have been worse : it was still four walls with a roof, but compared to what he had been used to, it was...rundown to be polite. He hanged his trench coat on the banister and let out a sigh. Running a hand through his already overly messing dark hair, he contemplated the empty space. A few rays of sunshine were piercing through the closed blinds, and he dropped his body on the stairs, burying his face in his hands. How the almighty had fallen, he bitterly laughed to himself. Once he was able to regain his composure, he finally texted Gabriel.

**Got the keys. I guess I’m officially home.**

**How can you sound so miserable even via text?!**

Castiel ignored the remark.

**My stuff should be here by noon. I’ll call you once I’m settled.**

**Alrighty! Talk to ya later**

Castiel smiled slightly. His brother would never say it to his face, but he cared. They cared about each others, in a their own way.

Truth be told, Castiel did not know what was wrong with him. Everything was just... nothing. He who once could spend three days debating about a Shakespearian classic, felt nothing. He had been unable to work on a thesis in more than a year, had not read a book in almost two, and he could not stand to be in a classroom anymore. It was almost as if had woken up in a world where he did not belong anymore. “Major depression", his psychiatrist had called it. And maybe that was it. But instead of getting help, or more precisely refusing for others to help him, he took on Gabriel's advice. His brother had said it as joke though. “Go get lost in the middle of nowhere, and meditate or some crap like that. Or go on a bender!” Gabriel had told him. But the idea kept twirling in Castiel's mind, so here he was. From his inside pocket, he grabbed the pill bottle, popped two and let the bottle roll next to him. It rolled down two steps before laying still on the floor.

He finally opened the blinds and ventilated the front room. The kitchen was useable, so that was that. The bathroom would need to be refreshed but at least, he had hot water. Upstairs, two out of the three bedrooms were decent, only needing a new layer of paint on the walls. The furthest bedroom was different however. At first sight, it was alright, but a quick glance at the door, and you could see a hole left by someone's fist. He stepped in, and stood in the middle of the room. The walls were full of nails where torn pieces of paper were still attached to them. Judging by the numbers of them, the room must have been filled with posters, before being stripped away in a fit of rage. In the right corner, markings could be seen where a metal bed frame had forever scratched the walls. Castiel squinted his eyes and took a step closer. Right above the markings, his fingers reached out to touch what looked like bullet holes. Tiny holes unmistakably made by lead shot. He took a deep breath, and opened the window. Two letters carved on the frame caught his eyes: DW. 

A honk in street startled him. His heart strangely heavy, he left the bedroom, and felt the need to close the door behind him. The truck was waiting for him outside, and a few men started to bring boxes inside. There was no turning back.

Most of the boxes went upstairs in the first bedroom, which he hoped to convert into his office. Apart from a worn out sofa, a stained mattress and a few boxes of clothes, he only owned books. A lot of them. It was his life, and his job after all. Any white goods and other furniture belonged to the flat he had rented, and it’s only upon seeing the big empty house being just as empty with his things inside that he realised he was missing something. Something bigger than nice upholstery.

His stomach gave him the answer, a quick fix in his life. He needed something to eat. Taking his meds on an empty stomach was never a good idea, but it was not like he cared anyway. At least it made him feel something. He grabbed his trench coat and the keys to his Lincoln Continental. He had been told his car was a head turner, proper American classic but to him, it had just been four wheels still rolling. He almost hated that car actually. It never felt like him, or didn’t feel like him anymore. It was a gift though, and you are meant to keep those. So here he was, thirty five years old and still driving the same car he used to at sixteen. The problem with gifts however, is that they are a forever reminder of who gave them to you.

He followed the road signs for a few kilometres, and settled for the first diner he encountered, which seemed to be the only one around. He just wanted food, and couldn’t afford to be picky when he was this hungry any way, so he would explore the area an other day. He parked and entered, finding himself a nice table in the corner. When the waitress came over, he was lost in thoughts however, and she had to repeat the specials of the day. He went for the first she said, not completely aware of what he had just ordered.

“Anything to drink?”

“Yeah er... A beer will do, thanks.” He was not meant to mix his meds with booze, but one could easily argue that just the one beer was just flavoured fizzy water. The waitress nodded, the customer friendly smile fading away as she turned around. Castiel tapped his foot a few times, before letting his curiosity overtook him.

“Mr Singer!” The man drinking a cold one at the counter turned around and raised an eyebrow. Castiel pointed at the seat opposite him and invited him to his table. Reluctantly, the old man joined him.

“You’re the fellow who bought John's house right?”

“Castiel Novak...yes.” Cas thanked the waitress as she brought the beer over. “I take it John was a friend of yours then?” He took a sip.

“Yeah... acquaintance really. Man was a bastard. Not used to be though, but his wife got killed in a car crash decades ago... never was the same ever since. Raised two boys on his own. It was tough. Not an excuse to be a dick though.” Bobby downed his own drink, and signalled the woman behind the bar for an other.

“Sam is the one that sold me the house. Never heard anything from his brother.”

The woman – who was not wearing a uniform, so Cas assumed she must have been the owner - placed a bottle near Bobby and gave him a heart-warming smile.

“Boy over here wanna talk about Dean... so keep the beers coming Pam!” Bobby tried to laugh and Pam nodded, her bright smile morphing into a sad one. She eyed Cas for a second and waved at him before going back behind the bar.

“Dean?” Cas asked.

“Dean Winchester. A great kid. Hell, I say kid.... He would be thirty two now.”

“Would be?” Castiel thanked the waitress again when she placed a cheeseburger before him. But he was too captivated by the old man to even remember eating.

“Yeah...” Bobby cackled, aborting any other reaction by bringing his beer up and downing it almost instantly. “Disappeared ten years ago. Stole his old man's car... a '67 Chevrolet Impala...the kind of car you can't miss but no-one...no-one has heard about him since. Presumed dead. Sam’s sure he is.” Pam did not wait for a sign, and replaced the empty bottle by a new one.

“But not you.” Bobby nodded at that. He pushed the plate right in front of Cas and ordered him to dig in before it gets cold. Cas laughed at that. He never knew his dad, but he imagined it was what it felt like to have one.

“Nah. The kid is still out there. Probably settled down somewhere and happy. He gotta be. He must be. That’s good stuff right!” Bobby smiled as he saw Cas widening his eyes after biting into the burger. It really was good.

“I was starving.” He confessed, before grabbing a few handful of fries. He offered some to the old man who just took an other sip instead.

“Dean loved that place. Used to say they nailed the meat/salad ratio in the burger.” Castiel frowned.

“There’s no...salad.”

“Exactly.” And Bobby laughed. Not one of these sad empty one, but a true joyful one, and Cas joined him. “First thing I’ll do when I’’ll see him again : bring him down here, get a burger, some pie, and enough booze to kill us both.” Bobby’s voice dropped down, becoming a faint rumble. After a few second of silence, Castiel felt like asking.

“Is this... is this why it was hard to say goodbye to the house ... in case Dean comes back?”

“Sam... when John died, Dean did not show up at the funeral. So Sam took it as the final proof that Dean was... but I think that now that John is gone, he would come back. He has to. He has nothing to run away from right? Kid can come home.”

“If... you don’t know if Dean is still ali-...out there, how can you be sure he knows his father has passed away? Who would have told him?” Cas tilted his head once more, cleaning his fingers in a paper napkin.

“Ah. You see. It’s all about having hope. The kid will be alive until I see a dead body. And if I gotta die believing he is out there and happy, then so be it. Even with no proof of it, so be it. I’ll keep making excuses for him. There’s hope. There’s always hope.” He cleared his throat.” Gotta go back to the garage. Don’t worry about your food buddy, it’s on me. And you take care of that house alright. If not for Dean, do it for an old hopeful man.” Bobby grabbed his cap from the counter and left a few bucks to Pam who gave him a pat on the shoulder.

Castiel waved him goodbye. Plate almost empty, he was making a mental list of what he had to do. He would need to furnish his new home, buy a fridge at least. Potentially a desk. He might ask Mr. Singer for some addresses he could check out, or he could probably ask Pam.

Finishing his beer tough, Castiel only had one remaining thought : Dean Winchester, the man who left, to never come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kuddos and comments appreciated, although you can just open a beer and we can drink together. Cheers! Xx


	2. Ramble On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw : Alcohol. Mention of violence. Mention of death.
> 
> Playlist :  
> [On the road](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4OPCkVGdMEfBtjq0ItWWdQ?si=iLMJzHF3TzWEO9z0Tj9y1Q&utm_source=copy-link)

The sun was high, and music was blasting through the open windows. In the mirror, Seattle could be seen becoming smaller and smaller. The route 5 was the only thing he could focus on. A nice stretch of straight road, numbing his thought. Washington state had always been a ride he enjoyed, and he could afford to leave the map unattended on the passenger seat. He hummed the last notes of Bruce Springsteen, and gasped softly when a new song started. He turned the volume to maximum, his left arm hanging from the window, drumming against the black paint.

“Leaves are falling all around.” He dropped back slightly from the truck in front of him. “It's time I was on my way.” He brought his arm back inside, and overtook the long vehicle head bobbing along. “Thanks to you I’m much obliged, for such a pleasant stay.” When he was back in lane, he went back to his cruising position, not without grabbing a piece of beef jerky from the plastic bag on his side. “But now it’s time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way.” He sped up slightly, enjoying the almost empty road. “ For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it’s headed my way.” Two hands now on the wheel, he straightened up slightly. “aah, sometimes I grew so tired, but I know I’ve got one thing I got to do.” ... his hand drummed on the wheel, now shooting as the Impala rolled without ever planning to stop. “Ramble on! And now’s the time! The time is now, to sing my song!” He felt free. He felt good. He felt like nothing mattered. “I’m goin’ ‘round the world, I got to find my girl!” he patted the Impala lovingly, a sad smile almost making it through to his lips. “On my way!”, he swallowed, head bobbing less enthusiastically. “I’ve been this way ten years to the day.” He chuckled, confused by the burning feeling in his eyes and the dust trapped in his throat. Broken voiced, he cried :”Ramble on! I gotta find the queen..of...”, he turned off the radio and pulled on the side of the road, earning a few angry honks in the process.

He dropped his head on the wheel, enraged and sobbing. He felt too much. Ten years. Ten goddamn years, driving across the whole country, living of some handy jobs and playing pool. Ten years, and all he had was a duffel bag of clothes, a few cassettes, journals and abandoned postcards. One was still under the plastic bag next to him, a painted version of the Space Needle in Seattle. _Happy 28 th Birthday Sammy. _And just like the previous nine, it would be placed in-between two pages of one of his journals, to never be mentioned again.

Dean took a deep breath and opened the door to get some fresh air. Running a hand on his face, he cursed at Robert Plant for opening the Pandora box that was his soul. Ten years. Cigarette burn still scattered within his freckles on his arms, tiny round scars on his right shoulder, a lead shot still lodged under his skin, bumpy under his fingertips. Ten years of running away, yet everything was still there.

Sometimes, parked in a clear patch by a forest, he would sit on the bonnet of the Impala, wondering what life had Sammy made for himself. Maybe he was an uncle by now. He wondered if Karen and Bobby were still happily married. He wondered if his da- John ever stopped drinking.

The thing was, more than once, he dreamt about jumping back in his baby and driving straight back home. But the thought was quickly aborted, and instead he would turn the wheels in the opposite direction. Once he had left Kansas, he had travelled through each states, but never, ever had the Impala set wheel in Kansas ever again. It was too much. What if someone would have recognised the car, or simply hear it. He had no right to leave them all behind ; his ultimate selfish action, and now...well now he had no right to barge back into their life. Not after ten years. Not ever. He owned them that. For them all to grieve him, to carry on with their life, without having the burden of dealing with Dean Winchester.

He kicked the front wheel, angry tears running down his face. And he kicked it again, and again, punched the passenger door, one time, then two. His legs gave up on him, and he dropped to the floor, his back collecting the dust from the car.

Who would have thought leaving was easier than coming back? He kept trying to convince himself that it had not had been this bad. His childhood was rough, tough, but maybe he was just the one being too weak. Couldn’t be his father's perfect son. He failed at something as easy as just existing in his dad's eyes. But he understood. How could he ever compare to Sam. Sammy. Always the clever one. The one with a bright future. Not a disgrace to the Winchester’s name. So he understood his father. And if he had stayed that long in Lawrence, it had been only for Sammy. He could not run away on his brother when he was still just a kid, so he had waited for him to turn eighteen. Hell, he even spent years earning, saving enough money so his brother could go to college, secure his futire before taking off forever. He just wanted Sammy to escape their hometown the right way. Because of course John would never have cared about post-graduate education, old bastard was too busy drinking and beating the shit out of him.

On really bad nights, he wondered what his mum would have thought of it all. Would she be passive? Would she have ran away with the kids? But once again, if she would have been alive, none of this would have happened right? He loved his mother, he missed her, and he felt like the four years old he once was when he thought about her. And he hated her for it, for leaving him. It was stupid to be angry at her for dying in an accident, but he could not help himself. He was angry, so angry, because it all had been unfair.

It was not like he had knocked on his father’s balls to come to life. His parents must have wanted him right? A loving couple having two kids, a house in the suburb, hosting a barbecue on Sundays, fresh pancakes in the morning. A leather belt. Gunshots. Blood. “You were an accident. You wasted my life.”; “She died because of you.”; “You killed her.”; “You’ll be a great son the day I could piss on your grave.”

Dean almost crawled to the trunk of his car, and grabbed some whiskey he always kept on him. From his brown leather jacket, he grabbed a pouch of overly dried tobacco, wrinkled rolling paper and some cardboard. He rolled his cigarette, hand shaking. Grunting, he threw away the paper, wet from the remain of his tears on his finger tips. He took a large gulp of whiskey and moaned at the burning feeling down his throat, numbing himself. Rolling the zippo on his jeans, he lit on his cigarette, and just stayed there, on the side of the road, cars and trucks passing too close to him, dust making him disappear for a slip seconds in the face of the world.

Half the bottle downed, resting in between his legs, ashes on his knees and his mouth tasting of oak and burnt, he jumped out of skin when a loaded truck passed almost close enough to drag him along under its wheels.

“Come on Dean! Carry on right? Carry on...” Helping himself by gripping the Impala, he stumbled back into the driver's seat. Fumbling into a wooden box, he pulled out a cassette and managed to put it on after a few tries. An arm across his eyes, he just let the music lull him. He drunkenly and lazily sang along. “He thought he was the King of America, where they pour Coca Cola just like vintage wine.” He turned the volume up. “Now I try hard not to become hysterical, but I’m not sure if I’m laughing or crying.” Elvis Costello always reminded him of his mum, who used to play the record late at night, enjoying it with a glass of wine. He wondered if she had ever been happy. “I wish that I could push a button, and talk in the past and not the present tense.” Maybe she was not. He couldn’t remember a lot, but she had smiled, every passing day, she had this bright smile of her when she was looking at him, like he had been the most precious thing in her world. And then she looked at John. “And watch this hurtin’ feeling disappear, like it was common sense.” John had this way of treating the one around him. Tough love some might call it. Other would squalify it as abusive, plain and simple. But no matter how you wished to call it, the results remained unchanged. “It was a fine idea at the time, now it’s a brilliant mistake.”

Dean, dazed and confused, took a second to realize his phone was vibrating in his pocket. He dug it out and sighed at the ID caller.

“Hey Benny. How's life?” Dean tuned down the music, and wash down his mouth with some more booze.

“I'm good brother... are _you_ okay?” Dean rolled his eyes.

“I’m fine. I’m always fine.” That's what he is supposed to say right? Benny, however, knew better than to stop at just that. He had always been really perceptive for these things, and during the year they had spent together, Benny had been the first person Dean had opened up to, about his life, his past. They were not in a relationship per se, just the occasional fuck buddies, but when it all became too serious, too domestic, Dean had ran away again. And Benny had let him. Because he knew Dean needed it. But even after all this time, he was still checking up on him. They were brothers at heart, united by their mutual shit show which was their life.

“Are you drunk?” Benny asked, his voice clearly concerned.

“Just had a drink. I’m fine.” Dean glanced at the bottle, before his eyes trailed on the postcard, so he moved the plastic bag slightly to hide it from his sight, snatching a piece of beef in the process.

“Where are you?”

“Road 5. An hour away from Everett.” Dean stated plainly.

“Yeah no,” Benny started, “Leave at the next intersection, find yourself a bloody field and sober up. You’re not driving to Everett today."

“Dude, I’m fine.” Dean pinched his nose bridge. He wished his words sounded as sober as they were in his mind, but judging by the silence in the other side of the line, he was wrong.

“I don’t care that you’re fine. The car you might crash in, they won’t be fine. If you have a death wish brother, don’t make other people deal with it.” It was not explicitly said, but Dean knew. He knew Benny was referring to the drunk driver who had killed his mom. And he hated to admit it, but Benny had a point.

“Why did you call anyway?” Dean changed the subject, fishing out a bottle of water from the bag.

“Just checking up on you. I know it’s never an easy time for you.”

“Kid turned 28, no big deal.” And Benny would have believed him, if it was not for Dean's voice cracking.

“Alright. If you say so. Just call me tomorrow. Now go sober up in a bush or something yeah?”

“Yeah yeah.” Dean hanged up and threw his phone on the rear bench seat. It was a big deal. They would not be counting how many years had Dean be gone now... they would say a decade. A whole fucking decade. 

Dean turned on the engine, and went back on the road. He will not beat himself up for having a breakdown. That old Dean was gone. He was fine. It was all fine. He turned the volume up again, cruising at the sound of Talking Heads.

_Well, we know where we’re going,_

_But we don't know where we’ve been._

_And we know what we're knowing,_

_But we can’t say what we've seen._

_And we're not little children,_

_And we know what we want._

_And the future is certain;_

_Give us time to figure it out._

Ten years. There was something which had to be done. Dean turned at the first given chance he had, and drive through a small town which looked like so many he had travelled through already. Parking near the first shop he saw, he bought a postcard. A pastel mountain where the letters were reading Seattle, each of them filled up with a drawing of the city best assets. It was tacky, cheap, and he didn’t care for the card did not matter. On the front of the Impala, he laid it down, before coming back with a pen which was pinned on one of his journals.

_“Sorry to break it to you, but your fucked up queer kid is still alive. I hate you. I fucking hate you. But you’re my dad. And for that, I can’t help but loving you. Baby is still rolling. I’m sure you worry more about the car than about your son anyway. So you can go to bed soundly tonight. The Impala is fine._

_DW”_

He wrote the Lawrence address, hating himself for still remembering it after all this time. Home. He was writing home. He dropped the postcard in the letterbox, and drive out of the parking lot. On a small country road, he stopped. Downed the rest the bottle and fell asleep. His radio was taunting him. _Wack for my daddy-o, wack for my daddy-o. There’s whiskey in the jar-o._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey in a jar... are you more a Thin Lizzy or Metallica version kind of person? Oh well...I'm Pulp. Great cover! Gotta listen to it! 
> 
> A whole lotta love to y'all xx


	3. Take me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotify playlist : 
> 
> [On the road](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4OPCkVGdMEfBtjq0ItWWdQ?si=MKiJYqbGQxur8OZBvC4ycA&utm_source=copy-link)
> 
> A whole lotta love to y'all xx

_Seems so long I've been waiting_ _  
Still don't know what for  
There's no point escaping  
I don't worry anymore  
I can't come out to find you  
I don't like to go outside  
They can't turn off my feelings  
Like they're turning off a light  
But I,  
I don't mind._

_Take me home – Phil Collins (1986 US release)_

* * *

Castiel had been living in Lawrence for a month. Each passing day resembled the last. He had bought two bookshelves, which truly were just random pieces of wood nailed together, but it was enough to store his books. The first bedroom was now box free, although it had taken Castiel about three weeks to tackle the task. In the room next to it, the mattress was on the floor and a chair was the only other thing there, drowned under a pile of clothes. The last bedroom however, had remained closed.

When Castiel woke up that day, he groaned, struggling to stand up. From the floor, he grabbed his grey dressing gown and made his way downstairs. He kept wondering what would his life be if he had a pet, a cat to take care of. It would be nice. Machinelike, he made himself a cup of tea. He should call Gabriel later on, at least to let his brother know he was alright.

Barely lifting his feet, he walked outside and checked the letter box. A few days ago, he had received a thesis from Fergus, his frenemy in the literary world. They got along really well, only their opinion of what constituted good writing were on the opposite spectrum. Crowley was a traditionalist art wise, and to him, nothing post war was deemed worthy of being read. He said humanity had reached its peak late 19th , early 20th century, and nothing after that counted. It was such a ridiculous claim, even for Crowley. And Castiel often wondered if his colleague claimed this just to get a reaction out of him. But Cas had no energy left for arguing, no argumentation or even starting of a debate so he had just sighed. And when he received the thesis, he did not even bothered to read the preface. Instead he had discarded it on his desk where it was left untouched ever since.

He ran through the pile of letters of the day : water bill. Gas...Electricity meter change appointment. Something about the city council. And... a postcard. Castiel instinctively looked up but there was no-one around. Why would there be. He turned it around, his eyes trying to decipher the rushed writing. But two letters could not be misread. DW.

He walked back inside, numb. His brain hurt, his chest was heavy. Footsteps trailing on the wooden floor, he made his way to the kitchen, right in time for his phone alarm to go off. With a groan, he turned it off and took his medication. He made a mental note to remember his appointment booked for in two weeks time to review his meds. They were going to increase the dosage. As usual. It was not that the anti-depressant were not working, but they weren’t magic beans either. And how was he supposed to work on getting better when every day was made of nauseous hours, sleepless night and exhaustion. It felt like healing one's mind cost one's body. In the mist coming off his mug, he smiled however : he had not only taken a shower yesterday, but also shaved and went to the laundromat. So yes, he allowed himself to smile, celebrating his own small victories.

It was only then he realised he was still pinching the postcard in-between two fingers. Tea in hand, he sat down on his sofa, his eyes unable to look away from the Seattle vintage scene. Seattle. Was it where Dean had been all along then. Lost in thoughts, Cas nurtured his hot beverage. He thought about Hendrix, Quincy Jones, Green River. Seattle and Washington state : decades worth of music history. And Cas thought about the posters that must have been up the walls in the room upstairs, once upon a time. He did not know a lot about Rock, Blues, Grunge or anything alike. Well, he knew the history, what he had read over the years, but it didn’t know what it sounded like. He would usually just put on the radio as a background noise but never paid close attention to it, mostly because he never really cared he guessed.

But something was strangely intimate in the thought of this runaway young adult, driving away in his stolen American classic, crossing the country to reach the unknown, a place which must have felt like he belonged. Only to think about home ten years later.

The writing really was rushed however. Almost just thin wavy lines spread across the empty space. A passionate writing, a cry, anger : whatever it was, it was emotional. Not thought through, impulsive. It took Cas a lot of tries to figure out what it all said. And after a while, only a few words stood out: Sorry, fucked (up?), queer, hate you, dad, loving you, your son, Impala.

Cas leaned back, postcard balanced on his knee. He would have to tell Bobby. And Sam. He would have to go to these people, him, a stranger, and tell them Dean was still alive. But he couldn’t. Something felt like he should keep it for himself, if not burn the postcard all together, pretend it never happened. He wondered if Dean was currently sitting in his car, regretting ever sending it. Would Cas make him a favour by pretending the card never reached the house?

So he did the only thing he could think of.

“Hey brother. It’s good to hear you!” Gabriel's voice was rough, if not drowsy.

“Sorry. Did I...wake you up? I can call back later. Yeah. Just ... just send me a text when...”

“It’s fine. My fault for still being in bed at eleven.” Cas could hear his brother sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Eleven is a reasonable hour to still be asleep, especially if you had a late night at work. I should not have assumed you would have been awake with only my own schedule in mind-"

“Ok, I’m stopping you there Cas. Don’t spiral down. I’m saying it’s fine. Okay?” Cas sighed. His fingers drummed slightly on his thigh and he counted to ten. “So baby bro, what's up?”

“Well. You know the house I bought... so it used to belong to this man, John, who passed away. And he had two sons. And I bought the house from Sam, the younger brother.”

“Okay.” Gabriel said. In the background, the coffee machine could be heard purring.

“The other son, Dean, disappeared ten years ago. I mean, he chose to disappeared. As far as most people are concerned, he is dead.” Cas couldn’t help but looked around the house. His house. It was strange, knowing someone else might see it as “home", and he felt like a stranger, like a guest in his own living room.

“Buuuuut?” Gabriel prompted, his teaspoon banging in the cup as he stirred his coffee making some unpleasant noises.

“I just received a postcard. Well, not ‘ _I'_... Dean sent it to the house, to his dad. Dean’s alive.” His last word were met with a dead silence on the other sign of the line. And for a second, Cas thought Gabriel had hung up on him. “Gab?”

“Don’t. I know...I know you care brother. But sometimes, you care too much. This...don’t get involved...emotionally involved in this. Just tell the people it might concern that the dude is alive, and don’t overthinking it. And if this man ever comes knocking on your door, then just tell him the truth. House has been sold, and direct him to someone else. “ It had always been like that. All their life. Gabriel was so detached about everything, almost as if nothing could ever bother him, not even a little. On the other hand, Cas had always been too caring, about all and nothing, even if it was something insignificant.

“Don’t say it as it’s a bad thing. Of course I care. How could I not?”

“I just wish you would care for yourself as much as you care for the world you know. Just a thought.” Gabriel drank his coffee in three large gulps. He was not one for deep conversation, life was too serious to be taken seriously after all, but he loved his little brother, truly. And he had learnt that sometimes, Castiel needed to hear it. So Gabriel would put the brotherly banter aside for a just a second. “You’ve eaten today?”

Castiel rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless. “I had diner yesterday, and I might pop out to eat out later on. I am eating. Don’t worry.”

“Nope. You don’t have the monopoly on worry. So let me worry about you once in a while eh? It’s my job. Big brother and all.” Gabriel chuckled before mentally slapping himself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean... I... you know what I meant.”

“Yeah. Yeah I know.” Sombre, Castiel closed his eyes, a headache starting to pound in his temples. “I know you’re not like _him_. We're good.”

“Alright. Cool. Cool cool. I'm gonna let you carry on with your day then. And if you need anything, call me. Text me. Whatever.”

“Will do.”

He dropped his phone on the small table he had found a few days back . _“Don’t get too emotionally involved.”_ Castiel finished his tea and stood up, postcard in hand. Two by two, he climbed the stairs and opened the door to Dean's room. On the left wall, he ran his hands on the nails sticking out. Right in the middle, he imagined it was Kansas. It was home, for someone on the road. And so, instinctively, he raised his hand to the left top corner, and carefully, hanged the postcard on one of the nail. Seattle, Washington.

~

It took Castiel longer than he expected, but he got dressed and put his shoes on. Behind the wheels of his Continental, he turned on the radio. It was not something he normally did while driving, preferring to focus on the sounds around him instead of a song. The radio spokesman talked about a phone game, unfunny jokes said with too much enthusiasm. “And now, we go back to a classic. Hair and trousers which left no room for imagination. Led Zeppelin, Ramble on!”

Cas found himself nodding along to the rhythm, and he quite enjoyed the voice, high pitched but strangely low, quite peculiar in its own way. And when he arrived in the parking lot of the diner, he realised he didn’t want to kill the engine just yet. Instead, he stayed there, listening, actually listening to it. When the song came to an end, he felt a certain feeling of satisfaction, a light feeling in his chest. Whatever it was, he felt something. And he loved it. A break into the monotony of the nothingness which was his soul.

When he finally left his car and locked it, he felt quite surprised by the soft wind caressing his skin. Pulling his trench coat closer to his chest, he walked into the diner, glad to see the table which had become his table of habit was available. He liked having some kind of routine for mundane things, such as having a favourite table. The waitress – Jo, he had learnt – welcomed him with a genuine warm smile. He had only been there three or four times, but most of the staff and patrons came to recognise him and greet him. And he liked it in a way. It was different than living in New Jersey, here he felt...acknowledged. He scolded himself mentally at his own display of egotism. He was just an other average Joe on this big rock called Planet Earth and no-one owed him anything, no-one owed him to care about him.

“Usual?” Jo asked, not even bothering to grab a pen and a pad.

“Please.” Cas smiled back. He moved slightly on his seat and took of his trench coat before hanging it on the back of his chair. Despise everybody minding their own business, he could not get rid of this feeling of being watched. So instead, he took a deep breath, and rationalized that he was allowed to make himself comfortable. It was a paradox he hated : he felt overdressed in his suit and tie, but leaving the house in anything else than a proper outfit gave him extreme anxiety. Years of hearing his family telling him a man needs to be well-dressed in all circumstance for God was watching. God, who was meant to be Love, had only given him a deeply rooted sense of inadequacy and wrong. Gabriel once described it as “Religious PTSD" but behind the wit of his brother, Castiel always believed there laid a ring of truth.

“One beer and a burger!” Pam exclamed, enthusiastically putting the order on the table. She placed her hand on Castiel’s shoulder and patted it a few times. Strangely, he did not mind. Again, he felt like he mattered, genuinely. “How have you been? Liking Lawrence so far?”

“I do actually. It’s...different.” He took a sip and snatched a fry. “I’m still trying to get used to it but now I can get go grocery shopping without getting lost.” She laughed and he gave her a small smile in response.

“Good! I’ll let you enjoy now!” She squeezed his shoulder and went back behind the bar to refill the whiskey glass of one of the patron. Cas dug in, still pleasantly surprised at how good their burgers were. Grease dripped down his fingers, collecting salt from the fries. He grabbed a napkin to clean the mess. It had become a small island of happiness; coming here, eating, having a drink. It was simple. A simple pleasure he was happily embracing. A small victory.

In the inside pocket of his coat, he had started to carry a book with him. In case the urge to read something would overflow him throughout his day. To not miss the opportunity. And as he licked some tomato ketchup from his thumb, he decided to take it out, and placed it on the table in front of him. Even though reading it was not on his mind, he smiled at the view, remembering to himself he had the choice.

On his last bite, he hummed, content. Wrinkled napkins left to die in the small red plastic basket, he pushed the whole aside and grabbed his beer instead. Jo emerged from nowhere and cleared his table.

“I take it it was good!” her blond hair framed her smile.

“It was perfect!” Cas said almost solemnly.

“You should try Pam's special one day. It has bacon, a fried egg and a decadent amount of maple syrup. Soooo good. Apart for your waist, but you only live once!” She laughed, her eyes shining with genuine amusement.

“Maybe I will!” He finished his beer and Jo grabbed the empty bottle. “I’ll take an other one today.” He surprised himself as he spoke.

“Oh, feeling adventurous then! Coming right away!” She disappeared in the kitchen. Cas’ eyes locked themselves on the book cover. _Death of a naturalist_. One of his favourite collection of poems. He would read it again. One day. But for the time being, he focused on enjoying his drink, watching people come and go, voices raising from tables around him and just, being a spectator. It was like taking a break, using the world as his personal theatre, mesmerized by the actors around him. Escaping reality by turning it into a moving picture to enjoy.

Completely zoned out, Castiel didn’t see the man standing near his table right away, and he almost spilled his beer when the man cleared his throat.

“Sorry son!”

“It’s alright Bobby. Sorry, I was miles away.” He gestured him to grab a seat. “How’s the garage going?”

“Good. Great. It’s running y’know. Same old. I just wanted to check with you: there’s a dart game at the roadhouse tonight. Care to join us?” Cas thought about it. Over the last month, Bobby and himself had because close acquaintance, if not friends. Cas found in Bobby a father figure he didn’t know he had craved all his life, and it seemed Bobby missed having the Winchester kids around, and was thankful to have Cas instead.

“The roadhouse?”

“You know my buddy Rufus? He owns a roadhouse near the garage. Good beer, nice music. Cheap.”

“If you don’t like my prices, you’re more than welcome to never come back Singer!” Pam shout from behind the bar and Bobby laughed, soon joined by Cas. The old man stood up to order a beer for himself and chit-chatted with the two women for a while. Castiel really considered Bobby's offer, but a knot was starting to form in his stomach. He had to tell him about Dean. And a roadhouse, or the diner in fact, didn’t feel like the right place.

“So, what do you say?” The mechanic asked when he was back.

“I... Maybe. I don’t know where that is though.” Cas let out a breath he didn’t he was holding in. Because that truly made him as well, not knowing the place, nor the people who would be there really.

“I can pick you up. The parking lot is quite small anyway, so if we can save some space. I’ll pick you up at seven alright?” He downed his beer without blinking. Castiel wondered if he should ever mention that he was worried about the old man’s alcoholism. But a quick glance around reminded him that it seemed normal around here. A town made of broken men drinking to forget something, sharing a drink called loneliness. Bobby stood up, his truck keys clenched in his fist. “And son, lose the suit tonight maybe. It’s just beer and darts.” Bobby looked at him from head to toe, in a way that could both mean “idjit" and “but if not, that’s fine" and Castiel tilted his head. It was the thing with Bobby really : he looked like your regular American redneck, but behind the cap, the beard and the booze was hidden an immense heart which kept surprising Cas. However, he finished his second beer, feeling the anxiety still crawling under his skin.

~

At half past six, Castiel was ready, pacing in the front room. He had texted Gabriel saying he was going out “with a friend". He couldn’t remember the last he had enjoyed an actual evening of socializing and each ticking minutes made him regret his choice. Gabriel had replied almost instantly : _remember you’re allowed to bail anytime brother. No guilt. Just bail!_

His eyes kept looking at the ceiling, towards Dean's room. His heartbeat was out of control. No matter how many times he played a scenario in his mind, he could not figure out how would Bobby react. So he had stopped on the way back and bought a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of rum and a pack of beer. Whatever the old man needed, Cas hoped he could provide it.

At ten to, he heard the truck outside, followed by a honk. Hands shaking, he opened the door and signalled Bobby, to come in. He could see the mechanic confused brow, but he did took of his seatbelt and killed the engine. Grunting, he got out, making his way to the house. He was visibly uncomfortable to be so close to it, and his eyes shot straight to facade, where the blinds to Dean's bedroom were closed, still.

“Before we...er... go, I’d like to talk to you.” Cas gestured to the door and Bobby followed suite. 

“Is everything alright?”

Castiel did not reply and instead run a hand in his face, looking anywhere but back at the man. He had not planned on the words getting stuck in his throat. Yet here he was, unable to speak. So instead he held a finger, and ran upstairs. Carefully, he retrieved the postcard from its nail. Panic running free through his veins, he walked back in the living room where Bobby had grabbed a sit on the sofa.

“This...” He handed over the postcard. “This came in today.” But Bobby did not take it, so Castiel let it fell on the table.

“Idjit.” The old man's eyes had a shadow before them, his voice was shaking. Still standing, Cas reached out to the two bottles of spirits and placed them next to the postcard. Without a word, Bobby grabbed the whiskey, although Cas was not even sure he had checked the labels, and Bobby took the largest gulp he had ever seen a man drink. It was only then than Bobby took a closer look at the card.

“So he is alive.” It was a whisper, if not a cry. “Do you hear that John! Your son is alive!” he shouted at the house. And he laughed, almost out of vindication. “Bloody hell.” He stood up, the keys to his truck always lodge in his hand. “Alright son. Roadhouse it is. Forget the darts. Tonight, we celebrate, and I might just go piss on John's tomb.” Strangely, Cas actually laughed. “Come on, let’s move!”

All the way to the roadhouse, Bobby had been a chatterbox, and Castiel had never ever imagined the man could speak so much. From how he had taught Dean to drive, to how he had served him his first beer, Bobby was lost in tales from the past.

“Kid was a natural behind the wheel. And he looked so happy doing so! Was so quick at picking up on the mechanic too...hanged around my garage since he was knee high. Could change a wheel when he was ten.” Castiel had listened to it all, imagining this kid now a grown man, still smiling on road, as if each drive was his first taste of freedom.

Bobby stopped in front of a wooden house with a red neon light, music echoing in the parking lot. “Right, let’s go!”

As soon as they pushed the door, the music surrounded them, like a warm hug. It was not too loud, no, it was perfect, and Castiel could feel it in his chest.

“Bobby! I was starting to think you had forgotten all about me!” Rufus shouted, throwing them two cans of beer. “Now bring your ass down here! Team aren’t complete without the old grumpy dog!”

“Rufus! Shut up, put away the board and get the bottle out!”

“The bottle,” Rufus stopped the music and all heads turned towards Bobby and Cas, “ as in.... _the_ bottle?” The roadhouse was like frozen in time. All it took was one slight nod from Bobby and everybody erupted in cries of joy, jumping in each other's arm. On the counter, Rufus aligned a few shot glasses, and filled them up with the content of a rum bottle which had accumulated about...ten years of dust. He handed them around, before making his way to Bobby and Cas.

“Here's one for you.” Cas took the shot glass. “And here’s for you.” Rufus handed the rest of the bottle to Bobby who held it high above his head.

“Kid, wherever you might be, we drink to you! Stay safe!”

“To Dean!” the room exclaimed, all downing their shots. Rufus resumed the music.

“So he is really alive? You!” Rufus turned to Cas and pointed his finger at him. “You take care of that house.”

“Yes Sir.” Cas grinned. “I will.”

Hell to not getting emotionally involved. Even if it takes an other ten years, Dean shall have a home to come back to. Cas made it a promise. In his suit, elbow on the counter, beer in hand, Bobby and Rufus arguing over nothing that mattered, he felt like maybe, just maybe, for a split second, he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kuddos appreciated but you can also make yourself a nice cup of tea, and just ~ vibe ~
> 
> Also, I am living for father/son Bobby and Cas friendship. It's therapeutic. 
> 
> Side note : drink responsibly eh? *opens an other can of beer* do what I say, not what I do. *sighs*


	4. Bon Jovi rocks...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ....On occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back for a Dean POV chapter!  
> Trigger warning :   
> -Alcohol  
> -Graphic description  
> -Violence   
> -Non-con attempt 
> 
> Spotify playlist:   
> [On the road, so far](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4OPCkVGdMEfBtjq0ItWWdQ?si=WU4Jb6XHTkyfQ34x91eIjQ&utm_source=copy-link) A whole lotta love y'all xx

Dean had only stopped in Everett to feed Baby some fuel, and then drove without looking back. He had been tired, exhausted, but he did not stop driving; he just wanted to get the hell out of Washington State, as if an imaginary line between two states could protect him. He was fairly certain that John would not cross half the country to try and find him, but fear was irrational and didn’t care for reason.

Seventeen hours later, his whole body sore, he pulled the handbrake. Idaho Falls. Grabbing his jacket from the passenger seat, he made his way out of the Impala and contemplated the Snake River. As if a veil had lifted from his entire being, his eyelids became a heavy weight, unable to stay open. He made his way around the car and retrieved a blanket and pillow from the trunk before cocooning himself on the back seat.

It was easy to forget he was an adult when the wool covering him had been the same for as far as he could remember, worn out and colour washed out. It belonged to his mother, and he had claimed it as his own, to always have a piece of her with him. A small piece of home he had never been able to let go, even if it meant he had to fold his legs against his chest to be fully covered. It smelled dusty, a hint of gasoline and the stench of the many beers he had spelled over it in his lifetime. It smelled of the open stretch of road ahead of him.

He turned, again and again, his body aching, exhausted but his mind bright awake. With great difficulty, he stretched his arm to reach for his phone on the front seat. 

“Dean!”

“Oh hey Charlie. How's life going?” He sat back up, his back resting against the door, his legs crossed in from of him.

“Dorothy and I just came back from a trip to Montana. Life's good!”

“Oh girl, are you joking? I’ve literally just drove all across Idaho, I could have made a detour!” He smiled. He missed her. Phones were great, but staying in a hotel, watching crap tv and talking all was different. He really missed her.

“Oh boy. See, that’s what you get for never texting!” She giggled. But truth be told, she really missed him as well. They had met in a record shop down in Chicago, Illinois. Dean had been browsing mindlessly, killing time mostly, and Charlie was actually doing the same. She had had an hour to kill before the official visiting hour at the hospital to see her mom, so she had walked in any shop which had picked her interest. And a cheesy pick up line had started it all, about five years ago.

* * *

Dean glanced at the redhead on his right, The Hobbit peaking out from her bag. Smirking, he leaned against the boxes of records and crossed his arms on his chest.

“ It was the darkest depths of Mordor. And I met a girl so fair.” He gave her his best charming smile. And she shook her head.

“Calm down Casanova. Not interested.” She pointed her two thumbs towards herself. “Gay.”

“Oh dammit. I waited years to quote Led Zep to a girl, and she’s a lesbian? I should have seen you were too good for me.” He laughed, a whole body laugh, his head falling backwards.

“Yeah well. Life is a bitch.” The owner of the shop scolded them for being to loud, and they ended up on the sidewalk.

“Fancy a coffee? I’d be glad for the company to be honest.” Dean ruffled his own hair, suddenly looking way less assured.

“Right.” Charlie checked her watch.” I got forty five minutes to spare.” She grabbed him by the sleeve and practically pushed him inside a coffee shop. When they found a table, hot drinks in hand, she looked at him from head to toe. “So. I’ve seen this look before. Kinda. Not met many gay people then?”

“I... Yeah...no... I'm...It's...” Words. Suddenly a foreign concept.

“It's complicated.” She finished. And he nodded. By reflex, he brought his fingers to his mouth, biting at the nails. “Try me. I do complicated for a living.” Charlie nudged him gently across the table and stirred her coffee. “Plus, see it like this : I’m a complete stranger. Chances are we are never gonna see each other again. So... spill the beans, and we'll go our separate way. I’m like... a cheap shrink without the commitment.” Dean considered it.

“Right... so...er...Dad...My father...John...,” and it was as if he had just opened a door which had been padlocked for years, and everything cramped in it busted out, “wanted me to be the perfect son. His perfect copy. And when I was sixteen, he saw me chatting up a boy. Well, flirting. And he lost it. Called me a useless faggot, a disgrace to our family name, a waste of space and oxygen. Dragged me home, beat the shit out of me. Cracked a few ribs. Maybe he thought that if he punched hard enough, he could punch the gayness out of me. And god knows he tried. And I tried to temper him. Told him I was bi, so a fifty fifty chance of him having a step daughter right? Made it worse. I was a slut, a whore, a perv. All the insults you could think of? I heard them. But I had to stay. For Sammy. My little brother. So I stayed. If I was fifteen minutes late, dad would crush down his cigarettes on me. ‘off sucking dicks again weren’t you?’... He... yeah.”

Charlie looked at him, jaw clenched. He had imagined a multitude of reactions but not this. She was angry. Fuming even.

“With all due respect, if I see your old man, he's a _dead_ man.” And she took a delicate sip from her cup, eyes darkened.

“I left him in the past. There’s no seeing him again. Ran away you see. I’m a passenger, and I ride and I ride.” Through the window, he glanced at the Impala parked in the street.

“Alright Iggy Pop, calm down.” Charlie followed his gaze as she spoke. “ Is that yours?”

“Yup. Ran away, _and_ stole the most precious thing my dad ever had.”

“Sweet ride. You got balls, gotta gives that to you.” Almost saddened though, she continued, “I’ve got to go though.” She stood up and offered him her hand. “May I at least get a name?”

He shook her hand. “Dean.”

“Well... maybe...don’t be a stranger Dean? ‘Right, peace out!” Charlie left the place, leaving Dean alone with his latte. He felt strangely good however. Lighter.

When he went back to his car, a pink post-it note was stuck under his wipers.

_I mean it. Don’t be a stranger._

_Charlie._

Followed by her phone number. He pocketed it and smiled. The same night, they were drinking cheap booze, sitting on the dirty floor of a nameless motel, marathoning Lord of Rings, quoting it almost by heart.

* * *

“And you, how’re things going then? Apart travelling through the ever so exciting Idaho state?” Charlie enquired.

“I... I send a card back home. To dad.” Dean rolled the window down and grabbed his tobacco. “I don’t know why... I just... it was... at the time, it felt like a good idea.” Patting his jeans pockets, he groaned at the absence of his Zippo, before spotting it on the seat.

“Do you regret sending it?”

“No...yes. Maybe? It’s...”

“Complicated, I know. Ok, think about it like that: you can send as many things as you want, it doesn’t mean you are either going home or thinking about going home. Plus, he can never answer right? You have no address where he could find you. So if it feels like you have things you have yet to tell your old man, then knock yourself out. It won’t hurt you, and it might just hurt him but for one, he saw it coming. And second, he can’t find you Dean. You’re safe. You hear me, you’re safe.” Dean did not answer. “You’re gonna go on a bender isn’t it?”

“.... yeah.” Healthy copping mechanisms were concepts he was familiar with, but it didn’t mean he had to apply them to himself. And he had just checked his wallet and he was running dangerously low on cash, so hustling pool it was. And if he could throw one or two drinks in the bet, he would not complain either.

“Stay safe then. Check in tomorrow or I’ll kick your ass pretty boy.”

“Will do. Over.”

“Over and out.”

Feeling like a new wave of energy had entered his body, Dean moved back to the front seat and turned the engine on. From the wooden box under the seat, he threw a few cassettes around before finding the right one. Like he had done a thousand time, he got the screwdriver from the same box and rewound the cassette manually. He did not have to do it manually though, but he liked it : made him feel like he earned listening to it. He pressed play , and reversed the Impala in one impressive move.

“This aren’t a song for the broken hearted.” He put the car in first gear, and re-joined the main road. “No silent prayer for the faith-departed.” Fingers drumming along, he changed gear again, swearing at the dick behind him blinded him with his full-beam lights. “I aren’t gonna be just a face in the crowd.” If his memory was not failing him, he knew just the right place for some quick cash and turned right. “You’re gonna hear my voice, when I shout it out loud.” Waiting for the beat to drop at a street light, he tapped two time on the wheel. “It's my life! It’s now or never! I aren’t gonna live forever! I just wanna live my life while I’m alive!” He indicated left, and checked his mirrors one last time. “It’s my life! My heart is like an open highway!” He sped up, careless about how loud he was singing. Carefree. “Like Frankie said : I did it my way! I just wanna live my life while I'm alive! It’s. My. Life.” 

He recognised the neon sign and parked in the lot. Keys in hand, he checked his hair one last time in the side mirror, straighten his shirt, and walked right in.

The place was busy, and a game of pool was already on. So he sat at the counter, ordered a whiskey, and put on his most miserable face. Shoulders low, eyes empty, fingernails clicking on the side of the glass. And like every time, it worked. Within half an hour, a man tapped him on the shoulder.

“Wanna play? You look like you need a distraction buddy.” Dean had seen this smile many times, all across the country. The smile of a man who thinks he just found an easy pray, easy cash. Dean played hard to get.

“Nah. Not drunk enough for that.” He downed his drink and the man ordered him a new one right away.

“Come on! Rules are simple. We agree on a bet. The winner takes it all, no argument.” The man, slightly taller than Dean and built like a carpenter, laughed. “Come on!”

“I got nothing to bet.” Dean used his most defeated voice, as if to say “Sure I’ll play, but I got no money so we’re stuck.”

“Your car.” The man pointed at the keys. “We win, we get your car. You win, you get...” He looked back at his group of buddies for a second before returning his attention on Dean, “five-hundred bucks. Deal?” Dean looked back at the pool table, where an other man could be seen missing a shot, quite dramatically. It seemed it was gonna be a pool shark vs pool shark kinda game. He was on.

“Alright. We bet only on the outcome, no ball sinking sub-bets. And it’s a one on one, you and me only.”

They agreed and shook hands. Dean turned back to grab his keys and knocked down his second drink. The bartender shook her head. “You stupid man. Say buy to your car.” She mumbled, annoyingly drying some glasses. For only reply, Dean winked at her, earning an interested raised eyebrow. She put the glass down, and threw the towel on her shoulder. “Impress me then.” She re-filled his glass and followed his new pool buddy.

The table was already set up when Dean arrived, and an other man handed him a cue. Dean ignored him and chose one on the rack instead. “Are we playing to 100, 125 or 150?”

“100.” 

“Alright. Are we going full on straight and play with nominations?” Dean asked, chalk in hand.

“Can do.” The man turned back to his friends who all nodded. “Yes, boy, we call and we count fouls.” 

“Cool. After you then, be my guest!” Dean propped his elbow on the rack, eyes watching every movements. He could hear one of the guy talking to the other. “I think Alistair fucked up on that one.”; “Let’s wait until the guy gets a shot.”

“First, car keys are going in the jar.” Alistair ordered.

“I’ll drop them when I see the five hundred bucks in.” The group counted bills hastily and dropped them in. Dean dropped his keys, grabbing the cash in the same movement. He counted it himself and nodded.

“Alright, go on then!”

Alistair made the break, calling safe. Three balls and the cue ball touched the rail. Valid. And a strong break as well.

Dean looked at the table, turning around. He was looking for an easy shot, something any pool amateur could pull off. He called 7 and pointed at the corner. Right in. No foul. He carried on playing that game, going for the easiest shots, trying to almost miss them on purpose. Six balls in, he decided to let the other one play, giving himself time to see Alistair's game. He called 9 in the centre. And missed.

Alistair smirked, confident that Dean knew how to play, yes, but he was not extraordinary at it. The group also let out a sigh of relief. On the table where Dean’s drink was still there and left untouched for a while, someone was writing down the score.

Alistair called 3 in the corner pocket with combination. He kept going, trying to shatter Dean's confidence. He called 4 in the centre pocket, to which Dean scoffed. It was the quintessence of a show off shot. The 4 hit the 8, and made it to the pocket.

“Foul.” Dean tapped the score paper from the tip of his finger. The group acquiesced and so did Alistair. At least, he was playing with an honest pool shark. When only the cue ball and 2 were left, Alistair racked the balls again. He had almost cleared the table before missing a shot.

Dean downed his whiskey, and walked to the pool table. He cleared the table with no foul, whistling along to the background music. He racked the balls again and broke it, calling 13. And made it.

His fingers trailing along the rail, placing his cue in different angles, he called 4 in the corner pocket, bank shot. Curious, Alistair pointed to one of the corner pocket behind Dean's elbow, whilst his cue was pointing in the opposite direction.

“Yeah...!” Dean nonchalantly said, almost shrugging. Not only was this a tricky shot, it was made almost impossible as a break had happened at the previous shot. Eyes aligned with the cue, pinching his tongue in-between his lips, he shot.

The ball bumped the rail three times, following a diamond trajectory on the table, avoided all the balls before softly falling down the called pocket. The few people who had came to watch the game cheered and even Alistair patted Dean on the back.

“Boy, that’s one impressive trick right there.”

The bartender re-filled Dean's glass again, stating it was on the house. Openly flirty, she whispered a “not bad" and let her hand fall next to his, winking.

After more than an hour, the game came to an end. Dean won with a significant difference, but there was no animosity between the two men, not really. Almost a mutual respect. Dean took his cash prize and offered Alistair a beer.

“I really enjoyed that boy. However, there can be only one pool shark in this place, you understand right?”

Dean smiled. “I don’t stay very long in the same place anyway. No need to worry.” They cheered.

“What’s your name by the way? Just so I can get Peter, the owner, to ban you?” Alistair pointed to a man slouched on a bar stool.

“Winchester. Dean.”

Alistair almost choked on his beer at the name. And Dean held his hand in front of him. “Not my fault you don’t ask people's name before playing buddy!”

“Serves me right.”

Quickly, the rumour spread. In the hustling word, Winchester was known. Famous or infamous, depending where you stood. He was known to be stupidly good, not only at playing, but at tricking people into believing he was harmless with a cue. But it had never been an issue for Dean : people who didn’t know him were gladly playing, and people who knew who he was were taking it as a personal challenge to beat him, which usually meant even higher bets. It was a win-win.

“Right. Thanks for the money. Time to roll!” They shook hand again, and Dean winked one last time at the bartender, proudly showing off his car keys still in his possession.

He liked it when such an evening was going smoothly. Unfortunately, more often than not, it was ending in a bar brawl when it was time to collect the cash. Not that he minded using his fists, not at all actually, but sometimes, some piece and quiet was great.

Back on road, he felt like the night was still young. And maybe a bar brawl was what he was really looking for. Or a quick shag in a dodgy bar. Turning the music back up, he tried to remember which places he was still not banned from in the area. As he thought, he hummed along. “It's all the same. Only the name will change. Every day, it seems we're wasting away.” He was smiling, back on road 15. “An other place where the faces are so cold, I’ll drive all night to get back home.” He did not stop at the roadhouse on his right, pretty sure he was banned from that place. How he was meant to know the pretty brunette was the owner's daughter? She was more than capable of making her own choices as well, and she had made the first move. He smiled brighter. “I’m a cowboy! On a steel horse I ride!” Not this night club either. He was not banned per se, but he had nicely been asked to never come back after punching an old bigot over the counter. “I'm wanted! Dead or alive. Wanted dead or alive.” He laughed to himself, Sammy’s voice still echoing into his ears. And he could see his brother's bitch face as if it was yesterday. _Bon Jovi?_ Turning the volume up ridiculously, he jammed along.

“Oh Sammy. Bon Jovi rocks!....On occasion.”

After about fifteen minutes, he saw a place which seemed fairly new. Liking the odds, he decided to give it a try. And when he walked in and didn’t see his face on the wall, he smirked. Nice.

Beer in hand, he scanned the room, getting more and more disappointed as no-one peaked his interest so far. There was definitely a nice looking dude by the jukebox, but the blond girl hanging from his arms was a clear indication Dean had no chance. Although, the idea of bedding the both of them was not unpleasant.

After almost an hour and about to call it a night, the bartender placed a martini in front of him, saying it was from the gentleman over there. Dean turned and upon checking him out, raised his glass as a thank you, not without a cheeky wink only he had the secret of. The man leaned toward his friend and whispered something, and the both of them erupted in a gravelly laugh. Dean's eyes got caught by the shimmer of the blade the dude was guarding near his thigh. _Shit_. He chugged his Martini and tried to make a quiet escape, mixing himself in the crowd, playing chill. Greeted a few women here and there. Winked once or twice. It was in those moment he wished he was slightly smaller. He could try as hard as he wanted, he could definitely be spotted in the crowd. A quick glance at the bar, and he saw the two guys had been on the move. If he had to chose between the brawl or the shag, he would have chosen the latest, but it seemed brawl it was. He hated people bringing knives or hell, guns, into a fight. It was a display of cowardice, and a profound desire to kill. Not playing by the rules.

His hand reached for his own shoulder, passing on the lead shot still lodged there. “Aren’t gonna feed a Nancy boy!” A gunshot. Blood. Pretending all was fine when John had finally passed out drunk and Sammy came back from school. Never mentioning it again. Fucking coward.

Dean ran for the back exit, only to stop midway through the door by an arm across his chest, swiping him of his feet. Grunting, he turned and stood up on his knees, holding a single finger up.

“Ok. First of all, good evening to you both as well.” He stood up, dusting his shirt, and rolled the sleeves up. “Second of all, I’m not looking for any trouble here guys. So let’s call it a night alright?” He spat blood when a fist met his jaw, and held himself up thanks to the now closed door behind. “I take it as a no then.”

“Just shut up you fag!” Dean growled when the second man fisted his hair, bringing him to his knees. “You’re gonna swallow my dick like the good slut you are. Open up.” The first man unzipped his trousers, and released his already hard cock.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Dean smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in pain as the guy pulled his hair harder. In one move, he elbowed one of them, and punched the other, cringing at the noise his fingers made. Fight or flight. He fled. Holding his injured hand, he ran back to the front of the bar where the streetlights gave him a sense of security. Fiddling in his jackets, he retrieved the keys to the Impala, and ran over the curb and patch of grass straight ahead, joining the main road in one bumpy move.

His left index and middle fingers had doubled in size and were already turning blue. He hissed through gritted teeth. _Son of a bitch_. He went to change gear and shouted in pain, almost losing control of the car. _Oh you_... _son of a bitch!_ Stopping abruptly on the unlit side of the road, he hopped out and used the torch on his phone to have a better look at his calf. _Bastard_.

He rolled up his jeans, and there it was : a deep cut, hurting like a bitch. He thought the sharp pain he had felt came from jumping so quick back on his feet mixed with not being as young as he once used to be, but the bastard had bloody stabbed him. On one foot, and steadying himself with the aid of the car roof, he reached the trunk. From an unhygienic looking metal box, he grabbed a bottle of glue and some bandages. Nearby laid a bottle of rum of which he took off the lid with his teeth before pouring a generous amount on the wound. Trying to breath it out, he shook his leg. He turned and turned, trying to find the best position, and ended up lifting his left leg to prop it against the car and pivoted his torso the best he could to have a better reach.

With his left hand, he brought the two sides of the cut together, spit out the lid of the tube he was holding in his right hand and glued the wound. From the throbbing in his broken fingers, to the burning sensation of the glue doing its work, he couldn’t care less about his split lip and the iron taste overpowering his mouth. After a few ginger attempts to let his left hand go, he was finally able to grab the bandages now that the wound had stopped opening back up.

Releasing his leg back on the floor slowly, he didn’t think twice before swinging the rum right in, swallowing to numb the pain, physical this time.

Charlie was right, he was safe from his father. But she was wrong : he was not _safe_. Putting most of his weight on his right leg, he went back into the car, and looked for an already broken cassette case. Sliding of the Black Sabbath cover, he tried to break the plastic into in a thin rectangle, slid it in-between his broken fingers and bandaged the whole. It was good enough for the time being.

Back on the road, he decided to go towards Ogden, Utah. He left route 15 and went onto route 91. He needed a change of scenery, so driving south instead of carrying East was his news plan. He got some fuel and snack at the first opportunity. The radio being just a murmur, his mind wandered around, and he tighten his grip on the wheel : Lawrence was twenty hours away. Ten years driving around could end with just a twenty hours drive, a thousand two hundred minutes.

On the dashboard, a blank postcard was waiting to be scribbled on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ps : I did change the title, from To be a Rock and not to Roll to "On the road, so far". 
> 
> See you in the next one! Xx


End file.
